


Dies Irae

by angesradieux



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crisis of Faith, Crucifixion, Gen, Religious Guilt, Tragedy, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 10:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angesradieux/pseuds/angesradieux
Summary: Athelstan has a crisis of faith. From his captivity in Wessex to his return to Kattegat and his visions of Christ, he is torn between fear of a vengeful God and a desperate desire for Salvation. Follow Athelstan as he works to understand and accept his faith and what it means to him. Interspersed with text from Dies Irae
Comments: 13
Kudos: 11





	Dies Irae

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I don't even know. I wanted to write a fix-it fic where Athelstan is alive and everything is wonderful. I ended up writing this instead. I have no idea. The Mozart Requiem got stuck in my head, so I had the Dies Irae kicking around in my thoughts, and that was that. Anyway, hope you don't hate it too much. 
> 
> Historical nitpick-Dies Irae was written and adopted into the liturgy well after the events of Vikings take place. But I liked the text, and does it really count as inaccurate if none of the characters actually use the words? Maybe. But there's my cop-out justification.
> 
> Feedback is always very much appreciated!
> 
> Cross-posted on FF  
> ~Anges

_Dies iræ, dies illa, Solvet sæclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla._

At one time, Athelstan heard the voice of the Lord in all things. From the roar of the waves as they crashed upon the shore to the gentle laughing of the wind as it flit through the gardens God was there, in all His majesty, ordering the monk’s life according to His Word. Then, it had brought him such joy and perfect peace… He missed it among the Heathens, when his Lord had fallen silent. He’d been plunged into darkness, deprived of the only Light he had ever known.

Athelstan had adapted. At first, he fumbled blindly in the blackness, but in time he’d found a glimmer of brightness in new gods who seemed better able to speak in that foreign land.

He is back in England, among people who call themselves Christian. He hears his Lord again, but it brings him no peace. He no longer feels the gentle hand that once guided him. Instead, he sees that same hand loom above him, poised to strike him down. The scars on his palms are open wounds once more, staining the ground with blood invisible to all save Athelstan. These visions can have but one meaning.

Athelstan fears the Day of Wrath is upon him. Or if it is not, it will soon come to pass.

_Quantus tremor est futurus, Quando Judex est venturus, Cuncta stricte discussurus!_

He is not welcome at Mass. Athelstan attends all the same, although he cannot say whether he is driven more by desire to be there or fear of the consequences should he stay away. He feels the eyes of the congregation upon him. They don’t speak to him. They don’t have to in order to make their judgement heard. But more fearsome than the disapproving glares of his fellow Christians is the all-knowing gaze of the Lord. He senses it everywhere, but in His house it becomes still more oppressive.

He should be grateful the Lord deigns to look upon him at all, even in judgement. He knows he is no longer worthy to live in His sight or His care. Still, he isn’t comforted by it.

He is terrified.

The weight of judgement sits as a great stone on his chest, preventing him from drawing breath. The Host sits like lead on his tongue and he knows he can’t accept it. The Lord has seen into his soul, and he has been found wanting. When he is sure no one can see, he discards the sacred Bread of Life and prays.

“Lord, I forsake myself and lay down my life at your feet. Do with me as You will, but I beg that in so doing, You will make me pleasing in Your sight once more.”

He lifts his eyes to the Heavens above, but there is no succor to be found.

_Tuba mirum spargens sonum, Per sepulchra regionum, Coget omnes ante thronum._

King Ecbert allows Athelstan to reclaim a part of himself. He is gifted with paints and brushes, with which he may once again illuminate the sacred texts. Fingers light upon the page ever so gently, scarcely daring to touch it at all. He had missed this work while living among the Northmen, but he didn’t realize how deep a loss it truly was. It becomes clearer now that the texts are before him again.

He offers a prayer of thanks and praise to the Lord, hopeful that perhaps this is a sign that he may yet become worthy of His love once again.

Athelstan lifts a brush with all the reverence appropriate for an instrument of such important and Holy work. He tries to ignore the ache of his damaged hand. Perhaps this pain is the penance he so richly deserves. The realization that this is not the case comes quickly and torturously as he sets to work on the page. The brushstrokes are clumsy—his hand cannot move as it would need to in order to capture the fine details necessary to create an illumination that would befit His Word. 

The king, sitting upon his earthly throne, judged Athelstan as worthy. But now he knows that the King of Kings, from his Heavenly throne, does not agree. He has seen that this sinner will never again be able to serve as he used to.

Athelstan wants to weep, but his eyes are dry. Though he accepts the judgement, he will not allow the Saxons to see his weakness.

_Mors stupebit et natura, Cum resurget creatura, Judicanti responsura._

The arrival of the Northmen should bring with it a sense of relief. His journey to their land had been difficult, but he has come to realize that he no longer feels at home among the Saxons. The faces of those he has come to consider family should evoke only joy. Why, then, does he feel the cold fingers of dread tightening about him like a vice?

Athelstan’s life had never been his own. The Church was chosen for him, as his parents had too many mouths to feed already and had no recourse but to give their youngest child into the service of the Lord. From there, he had grown into a life of obedience and faith. He’d come to love Lindisfarne, but he had not chosen it. Neither had he chosen to leave, bound and taken across the sea as a slave. He learned to find love and peace among the Northmen, but the decision had not been his.

Likewise in Wessex, captured and crucified as an apostate, the only reason he lived was because King Ecbert wished it to be so. He is no freer in this court than he had been anywhere else.

Except maybe now he is.

Ragnar will take him back, he is sure, if he were to ask, and King Ecbert will not force him to leave if he wishes to stay. He will be called upon to stand before his God and make a choice. Return to the heathens, or continue to live among Christians in search of redemption?

Athelstan’s life is now in his own two hands, and he very much wishes it weren’t.

_Liber scriptus proferetur, In quo totum continetur, Unde mundus judicetur._

The call comes first as he sits between Ecbert and Lagertha as an interpreter. Athelstan is speaking to Ecbert, and while Lagertha doesn’t understand all of what he says, she recognizes Odin’s name in the foreign tongue. She asks him about it and for a moment Athelstan sits in silence to gather his thoughts. Is he Pagan, or is he Christian?

“I love Odin,” he says haltingly. He will not lie—he has felt the Allfather’s presence on the battlefield. He still hears Thor in every lightning storm. To deny it aloud would make no difference; God knows his heart and cannot be deceived. He sighs, turning his gaze skyward. “But I also love Christ.”

The answer satisfies his companions, but Athelstan knows he will burn for this. He had been called upon to choose, and his failure has been marked down and tallied among his already far too numerous sins. And this time, as he capitulates between his Savior and the Norse Pantheon, the shame is entirely his own.

Before, he’d had the shield of other people’s choices to hide behind. Here, he stands alone before the Lord, the true wretched unworthiness of his soul laid bare.

Athelstan is a coward.

_Judex ergo cum sedebit, Quidquid latet apparebit: Nil inultum remanebit._

A choice must be made.

Ragnar’s business in Wessex is concluded and his men are preparing the ships to depart. Pagan or Christian? Athelstan can go or he can stay, but he cannot do both. In his heart, he knows what he wants, but he fears it will bring God’s judgement upon not only himself, but the Northmen as well. He wants to serve Christ, but he knows he cannot stay in Wessex. Athelstan drops to his knees.

“Speak to me!”

His eyes are frenzied and desperate as he searches in vain for an answer. “Please! I… I am so lost. You send me visions I don’t understand. You set this choice before me, but I don’t know what is Your will. How can I become worthy of You when You will not guide me?” He feels small and vulnerable, and the night is as silent as ever.

His footsteps are heavy as he leaves for Ragnar’s camp. God is watching, and God knows that Athelstan has once again avoided the decision before him. He leaves his Christian fellows and their churches behind, but a crucifix still hangs about his neck. There is no reason he can’t love Christ in Kattegat, he tells himself. Perhaps he will be better able to serve there, rather than remaining in Wessex to labor over poorly illuminated texts.

No amount of reason and argument can ease the bitterness of his guilt.

_Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus, Cum vix justus sit securus?_

His hands bleed again on the voyage back. It happens at night, while most of the crew sleep. Athelstan cannot see the gaping holes, but he feels the slick of blood on his palms. It’s a mercy none see him, else they’d have taken him for a madman, staring in horror at trembling hands that to all the rest of the world appear to have healed. He pulls his knees to his chest and curls in on himself.

God has tested him, and he has failed. What hope can there be for him?

If he prays to Odin he moves further still from his Salvation. But if he does not, what then? Will Christ ever forgive him? Athelstan has never felt so far beyond the love of God. The phantom wounds in his palms mirror the giant, gaping hole torn through his heart and soul. Maybe he ought to pitch himself over the side of the boat and allow the tide to take him. One, final sin to add to the list.

He doesn’t. He will live on, chasing the dimmest hope that he may yet make peace with his God, even if it grows dimmer still with each day. He feels as though he is falling, arms outstretched, crying for help. There is no one to catch him.

It would be foolish to expect otherwise. The very God whose pardon he craves so ardently is the God who saw him crucified.

_Rex tremendæ majestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salva me, fons pietatis._

Athelstan tries to settle back into his old life, but he is more lost than he has ever been. He no longer knows who he is or what he believes and it seems Ragnar is the only constant in his life anymore. Except Ragnar has responsibilities outside of Athelstan, who finds himself far too often in the company of none save his own thoughts. He moves aimlessly from one day to the next, praying to a God whose ear he fears no longer cares to listen.

He fasts. At one time, Ragnar would have scolded him for it, but he either does not notice or simply doesn’t know how to broach the subject, and so holds his tongue. Either way, Athelstan is a free man and Ragnar cannot forbid him anything anymore.

Athelstan has already suffered much, but maybe if he suffers just a little bit more he might find himself and his faith. He spends more and more time in his house and retires to bed ever earlier. His strength fades quickly and besides, he has no interest in subjecting himself to either Floki’s glaring or even the good-natured joking of the other Northmen.

He seeks instead the elusive company of his God and his Salvation.

_Recordare, Jesu pie, Quod sum causa tuæ viæ: Ne me perdas illa die._

A thin beam of light calls him from his bed. Athelstan sits upright and stares, mustering up the courage to approach. Something resonates within his soul, as if some invisible force is knitting together its tattered remains. Perhaps his prayers have not all been in vain. His breath quickens as he crosses the room and crouches before the wall.

He sees nothing but brightness. He holds a hand up to it and tears come to his eyes. The ache in his palms he has come to accept as part of his life fades as they are bathed in the warm glow. “Lord?” His voice trembles, but with anticipation rather than fear. He doesn’t need an answer. He feels the power and the majesty of the True God.

Athelstan doesn’t feel the stern and punishing gaze that had followed him through Wessex, or the silent condemnation of the Cross. He is neither Pagan nor apostate. For the first time in years, Athelstan feels like the monk he had been at Lindisfarne, loved and sheltered by the Lord.

He collapses and as he falls backwards, he offers prayers of thanks and undying praise. He no longer has to wonder whether they will be heard.

He is found.

_Quærens me, sedisti lassus: Redemisti Crucem passus: Tantus labor non sit cassus_

If death had claimed him then and there, Athelstan would have been satisfied. He basks in the glory of perfect light, gazing upon the face of the Savior. What more could he have ever hoped for? If this is what has come of all the suffering he has known in his life, then he has no regrets. He would submit himself to all of it again with a glad and willing heart.

There are no words. He can only lay where he has fallen, weeping tears of joy.

He is blessed. And yet he does not die. Instead, he is called to live as an example of Christ’s love, firm in his knowledge that the Savior lives in Heaven and has called him back to the flock. When he wakes, he knows neither pain nor weariness. There is a smile, bright and genuine on his face as he steps out into the world. He emerges to finally break his fast and to tell the world of the miracle he has witnessed.

His torment is at an end. At long last, Athelstan is made whole.

_Juste Judex ultionis, Donum fac remissionis, Ante diem rationis._

He walks into the Great Hall with a surety in his stride that he’d not known since before he and Ragnar had parted ways on the shores of Wessex. Floki’s eyes follow him, but he no longer cares. Athelstan approaches Ragnar, blue eyes alert and aglow with excitement. “Ragnar! Ragnar, I must speak with you.”

The Northman’s face splits into a smile. “Priest! It’s good to see you again—you’ve not been yourself.” He claps Athelstan on the shoulder.

“I’ve had a vision. My God. He… He’s found me at last. I can no longer acknowledge your gods. I will prepare to leave—”

“Leave?” Ragnar’s smile is gone. “What do you mean leave?”

Athelstan frowns. “Your men will not appreciate a Christian living among them.” Just as he could not stay in Wessex, he realizes he can no longer remain in Kattegat. He does not know where he will go, but he knows God will guide his feet.

“You cannot leave,” Ragnar insists. “I don’t care who you pray to, but you cannot leave me.” He takes hold of Athelstan’s hand, grip tender, yet still possessive. “I will protect you.”

He can’t ignore the desperation in Ragnar’s voice. Athelstan doubts whether it’s possible to keep him safe here. It was one thing to tolerate his Christian faith when he was merely a slave, but he does not believe they can come to accept it now that he is meant to be one of them. Still, he relents, “I will stay.” He puts his faith in the Lord to protect him. And if it is God’s will that he should die here? Athelstan is no longer afraid of death.

He will gladly depart this world to be with Christ.

_Ingemisco, tamquam reus: Culpa rubet vultus meus: Supplicanti parce, Deus._

Even if he remains in Kattegat, there is one thing Athelstan still must do.

He wades out into the water, throwing his head back and laughing. He has been reborn and as he stands, these waters feel every bit as holy as those blessed for a baptism. The ring on his arm has given him much comfort as a symbol of Ragnar’s friendship. He will be sad to see it gone, and yet he cannot keep it. It is a symbol of the Pagans and he cannot fully embrace Christ while he wears it. Ragnar will understand.

He removes the arm ring and throws it as far as he can out into the fjord. As it sinks into the water, the final vestiges of guilt are gone. Athelstan feels light in a way he hasn’t in far too long.

Henceforth, God is the only king Athelstan will serve.

_Qui Mariam absolvisti, Et latronem exaudisti, Mihi quoque spem dedisti._

Ragnar may understand, but the others do not. Rollo grabs him by the arm to confront him as soon as he returns to the Great Hall. He has become a traitor to them, just as he had been to the Saxons in Wessex. He would have been well advised to return to his house, but he does not.

Athelstan is unafraid, even if he suspects the end is nigh.

Mostly, anyway.

There is still Ragnar. They drink together as if nothing has changed, except it has. Together, they have only this life. There can be no reunion that Athelstan can see, either in Heaven or Valhalla. So, he resolves that whatever time remains, he make the most of it and cherish however many moments God sees fit to grant him with his dearest friend.

  
And, too, he has not entirely abandoned hope. If Christ has welcomed him back, then he believes no man is truly beyond redemption. Did not Christ pardon the thieves put to death alongside him?

He can live fully in every moment, in preparation for the worst. But through the grace of his Lord, he may also hope for the best.

_Preces meæ non sunt dignæ; Sed tu bonus fac benigne, Ne perenni cremer igne._

He ought not to utter any prayer, save for those of thanksgiving and praise, for as long as he lives. Athelstan is already blessed beyond measure—far more so than he deserves. Still, as he kneels, he dares ask for just one more blessing, but not for himself.

Athelstan prays for Ragnar, and for Lagertha and Bjorn, and all the others he has come to love. Even should they not enter Heaven, as he suspects they will not, he asks Christ to keep them and spare them the fires of Hell. Even should they never meet again beyond this life, he hopes that wherever they go, they will find peace and love with each other.

And, too, he thanks God for bringing him to them and for the journey they have shared. He didn’t understand all those years ago, a frightened captive in a foreign land. Now he does. He will not doubt again, he knows now that all good things come from submission to God’s will.

“Bless them and keep them, Lord, for without them I may never have come to know You as I do now.”

_Inter oves locum præsta. Et ab hædis me sequestra, Statuens in parte dextra._

He bows his head.

Athelstan is confident of his own Salvation. However, he does not take it for granted. He first gives his thanks to the Lord. And then he meditates, reflecting on his faith and how he may improve himself. He is not so arrogant as to believe himself worthy, nor does he believe he ever will be, but it is his most fervent desire to become more so.

“I give myself unto you, Lord, in body, mind, and spirit. Make me an instrument of your will and teach me how I may best serve you. Guide my hands, my feet, and my tongue, so that everything I am and everything I am yet to be may glorify you for as long as I shall live.”

His life is in God’s hands and Athelstan has never felt safer.

_Confutatis maledictis, Flammis acribus addictis, Voca me cum benedictis._

He hears the door open, but Athelstan doesn’t immediately turn around. Instead, he finishes his prayer before setting his gaze on Floki. The Northman is the picture of Wrath, eyes ablaze like coals and axe at the ready. The hatred that has been growing steadily over the years they’ve known each other can no longer be contained.

Athelstan does not return the hostile glare or the bitter sneer. He simply says, “Floki.” It’s spoken softly, as if welcoming an old friend.

“Priest.”

“I take it you’ve come to kill me.” It isn’t a question. He doesn’t seek a weapon of his own or give any other indication that he intends to fight for his life. He doesn’t even get up off his knees. Athelstan might have liked to have had a few more years, but he can also accept that these moments will be his last. He’s lived a full life. There is no cause for him to feel cheated.

His calm acceptance seems to only stoke the fire of Floki’s rage.

_Oro supplex et acclinis, Cor contritum quasi cinis, Gere curam mei finis._

Arms outstretched and face turned up to the Heavens, Athelstan prepares to die. His faces the cross, back turned to Floki. “Father, take my spirit.”

He hears an animalistic howl of rage. If there are any words, they are none he can discern. It isn’t important—there is nothing either of them can do or say that will change what is to come. It’s mostly painless. He feels the impact of the blade on his skull. Some part of him is even dimly aware that he’s falling as his body is sent sprawling to the ground.

Within seconds, it’s over. Athelstan’s spirit is bathed in warm and perfect light.

A single swing of an axe has called him Home.

_Lacrimosa dies illa, Qua resurget ex favilla, Judicandus homo reus. Huic ergo parce, Deus:_

Ragnar doesn’t immediately notice Athelstan is missing. His priest has been more reclusive of late, so he tries not to worry too much. It’s midday before he goes to check.

This is wrong. His eyes are deceiving him. It’s just a dream—a vision sent to torment him, nothing more. He will wake in his bed, and Athelstan will be alive and well. This isn’t Athelstan. It’s just someone who looks very much like him… In his house. Wearing his cross. He runs through every ridiculous and unlikely scenario in which his priest may still live before he finally sinks to his knees before the body.

Ragnar screams.

“He loved you! He _trusted you_! Why?” He turns grabs the wooden cross Athelstan prayed before and throws it. “You should have protected him! You should have been here! _Why were you not here?_ ” He hunches over. All of Kattegat must be able to hear as he howls his grief.

“Where the _fuck_ were you? You’re a useless god, aren’t you? I should never have let him put his faith in you.” His lips twist in an angry sneer. “You’re just a selfish bastard, aren’t you? Had to have him for yourself, didn’t you?”

In time, Ragnar will realize it’s not God he’s angry with at all. But it is too soon for that. Much too soon, as he cradles the cold body of his dearest friend. In that moment, he hates Athelstan’s Christ.

_Pie Jesu Domine. Dona eis requiem. Amen._

He’s grateful for the burn of his muscles as he climbs the hill. It almost distracts him from the ever-present ache in his heart. Ragnar pants with the exertion of carrying Athelstan to the summit. He lays down a moment, but he can’t bring himself to enjoy the softness of the grass or the soothing roar of the waterfall behind him.

Ragnar digs a grave and lays his priest to rest. “I hope you’ve found peace, my friend. I’m sure you’re in your boring Heaven, with your Christ.” He snaps a stick in two, fashioning it into a cross as a marker. “We’ll not meet again, I don’t think.” His voice breaks. “But I… I can’t accept that. How do I accept that?”

It’s impossible.

Ragnar hates Athelstan’s Christ, who’s taken his friend from him far too soon. Yet he forces himself to swallow the anger as he dons the crucifix that had looked so much more at home around the priest’s neck than his own, and he bows his head to pray as Athelstan once taught him. If the priest’s God forgives, then perhaps there might be hope for him yet.

One day, perhaps, they will both will find peace.


End file.
